


Helpless

by OctoberSkies



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Abuse, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Torture, Kidnapping, M/M, Missions Gone Wrong, Protective Iron Bull, Psychological Torture, Rescue Missions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-21
Updated: 2018-03-21
Packaged: 2019-04-05 14:07:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,494
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14045922
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OctoberSkies/pseuds/OctoberSkies
Summary: Written for the prompt: "Has Delton ever been kidnapped and needed to be rescued by a pissed off Bull?"The answer, evidently, was yes.





	Helpless

“Right, then. What do we have here?”

Delton flinched as the hood was pulled from his head, blinking back tears when the darkness he had grown accustomed to gave way to sudden and blinding light. Cursing, he tried to turn away, but a hand snared him by the hair, dragging his head back so roughly he had to grit his teeth against the pain. A figure stood before him; a tall man in heavy plate. A strange red hue surrounded him, emanating from his skin like perfume visible in the air. Of course, Delton was well aware that it was far from so benign a thing.

 _Well, this is just great._ Defiant, Delton tested the bonds around his wrists, cursing silently when he heard the tell-tale clink of steel. Not much he could do about that. Rope he could have at least tried to burn off in a pinch. The tall man – some kind of Templar, if Delton had to guess – took another step forward, looming over him.

“Inquisition, I take it?” he asked, then glanced to whoever was behind Delton, the question clearly intended for them. That person shifted, their shadow moving in the flickering firelight.

“Yes, Knight-Captain. Travelling with a small group.”

 _Shit_. Delton’s heartrate picked up, hammering a wild rhythm against his ribs.  _The Chargers. Bull. What had—?_

“And what of the others?” the Knight-Captain asked, sparing Delton the silent panic. The subordinate hesitated.

“They… weren’t there when we caught this one. Tormond thinks he was a scout trying to check our fortifications.”

“Actually,” Delton interjected, “I was trying to take a piss. So thanks for interrupting that.”

The Knight-Captain glanced down, seeming surprised that Delton had spoken. “Starkhaven,” he noted after a moment, dark brows raised. Delton just smirked.

“Nevarra. Nice to meet you.”

The Knight-Captain huffed, a swirl of red accompanying his amusement like breath on a cold night. “An ear for accents, then. You are a long way from home, Red.”

Delton’s lip curled into a snarl. “Don’t call me that,” he said, but the momentary anger gave way quickly to pain as the hand in his hair tightened, forcing his head back again, bearing his throat to the Knight-Captain. Like an animal before the hunter’s knife.  _Aye, this probably makes the top three worst situations I’ve been in…_

To the Knight-Captain’s credit, he raised a gloved hand, signalling his underling to cease. Delton released a tight breath, jerking away as soon as the grip slackened, lowering his head, Bull’s words playing over in his mind.  _Protect your neck, Red. That’s the first place an enemy’s gonna want to put their blade, and the last place you want to find it._

Shit, but if he didn’t wish Bull was there. Was that selfish? Probably. But for the first time in a long time, Delton felt it. That deep, withering ache that seemed to fill the marrows of his bones.

 _Helplessness_.

“I will call you what I please. Is that understood?” There was something about the way the Knight-Captain spoke. It made Delton, for all his stubbornness, want to shrink away. But there was nowhere to go. Nowhere to run or hide, chained on the floor of a barren room. In the end, not wanting to make matters worse, he didn’t reply.

Apparently, that was the wrong move.

Before Delton knew what was happening he was on his feet, dragged from the ground, the Knight-Captain’s hand closed tight around his neck, crushing his throat. Delton wheezed, struggling, feet kicking at the loose stones and dust as he tried and failed to pull in air. Those red-coal eyes of the lyrium corrupted burned straight through him. “You will  _answer_  when  _spoken to_ ,” the Knight-Captain said, voice low. Dangerous. Delton had heard voices like that before. They were the ones you learned to avoid in the dark.

Lips parted, no sound able to pass, Delton’s eyes rolled back, darkness clawing at the edges of his vision, panic and lack of air mingling in a potent haze that threatened to drown him. Then, he hit the ground, air rushing into starved lungs, pain lancing up the arm he landed on. Coughing, Delton curled in on himself, trying to force away the memories of a young boy in an alley. Trying to hold back the fear. Shove away the pain. On his own, alone on the bad nights, he could indulge in his own weakness.  _But here?_

Here, he could not afford to appear anything but strong.

“What do you want us to do with him?” one of the other Templars asked. His voice was sharp and harsh; steel chords in his throat. The Knight-Captain considered for a moment, his pale eyes sending a chill crawling up the back of Delton’s neck. Then, he gave a bored shrug.

“Get what you can out of him. Use whatever means proves most effective.” That heartless gaze locked with Delton’s. “The fate of a single man need not feature on my report.”

* * *

…  _How long had it been?_

Delton swayed in the dark, losing his balance for a moment before getting his feet back under him. His legs  _burned_ , the cramps knotting his calves leaving him in a cold, nauseous sweat. Eyes stinging, he shook his head, red hair soaked, wrists throbbing where they were manacled above him. The chain he hung from was attached to a ring. It dangled from the ceiling, hoisted and secured just high enough to leave Delton with two options: bear his weight on his toes, or hang by his hands.

 _”S-Shit…”_  Delton breathed, his shaking legs reaching the end of their strength once again.  _How many times had that happened, now?_ He would have to hang for a while. Teeth gritted, Delton tried to ignore the pain, lowering down inch by agonising inch, the pressure on his abused wrists increasing, metal biting into already damaged flesh. Despite trying to control his descent, Delton eventually reached a critical angle and his ankles gave out, sending him jolting down with a cry of pain. For a second, he thought he might have dislocated something. Luckily, as he breathed through the blinding pain, he was able to determine that was not the case. But he knew what it looked like; the damage he could not see. Skin discoloured, rubbed red-raw by the steel of the cuffs. The tickle of something running down his arms; the indistinguishable warmth of blood and sweat. Strangely, as he hung there like meat on a hook, the constant burning wasn’t even the worst of it. No, it was  _breathing._ He couldn’t. Not properly, at least. Every time Delton tried to drag in air, it stuck halfway, arms raised too high, chest pulled too tight. It felt like a single deep breath might snap him in two.

The door creaked open; a shallow, grating sound. A ribbon of light spilled across the floor, cutting through the dark, and a man entered. He wore no plate. No armour at all save a single gauntlet on his left hand. At a glance, Delton knew he was no soldier. At least, not one who had seen any actual fighting. Not for a very long time.

“Ready to talk, Red?” he asked amiably, as though they were seated across from one another at lunch. Delton glared at him, shaking, sweating cold and hot all at once. After his angry outburst at the Knight-Captain, they had  _all_  started calling him Red.

Taking Delton’s silence for the answer it was, the torturer sighed, examining his gauntleted hand, turning it over before the torchlight. “You  _will_  talk, you know.” The knuckles were lined with metal studs, tips gleaming menacingly in the firelight.  “Between you and me, starting now is really in your best interest. Why suffer through the means when the end will be the same? Save yourself the pain.” He flashed a crooked half-smile. Delton figured he might have been charming, once, before he lost sight of what it meant to be human. “And save  _me_  the pain of cleaning up. This can be remarkably messy work.”

“Forgive me for not  _weepin’_ for you.” Delton knew his type. Aye, they knew just what to say as they sliced off the soles of your feet and drove needles under your eyelids. They convinced you it was your fault. That the pain, the suffering, was all simply the price of non-compliance. Perhaps after enough time, that lie had become their truth. Perhaps it was what they needed to sleep at night.

Or perhaps they simply enjoyed watching others break.

The torturer set his torch in the sconce of the room’s central pillar and moved closer, inspecting Delton from head to toe; a master painter considering his canvas. That cold, calculating stare left Delton feeling exposed despite his tattered clothes, his hands curling, nails biting anxious crescents into his palms. He hated the way he flinched when the man reached out and grasped his chin, forcing him to look up.

“Hm.” The torturer turned Delton’s face roughly to the side, chains rattling with the movement. “This is truly a pity. I hope you at least enjoyed that face of yours. I’m afraid it won’t be quite the same once I am done.”

“W… We had a good run,” Delton rasped, throat like ash, the metal gauntlet cold against his skin as he forced himself to smile. “I’m not much of a talker.”

He had hoped it would be disconcerting, a broken man grinning madly in the dark. But the torturer just smiled right back.

“I find that rather difficult to believe.”

Releasing Delton, he stepped away and turned to a nearby table, his attention drawn to a long wooden box. Silently, he flipped up the lid, revealing the array of tools inside. Blades with edges wicked-sharp, wrapped in thick cloth to prevent accidental cutting.  _Ironic_. Pliers. Needles. Hooks, thin and thick. Instruments for cutting, pulling, tearing, piercing, crushing. In that moment, his gaze fixed on the promise of pain, Delton’s mouth went completely, utterly dry.

_This was really happening._

“You’re the first I’ve had in a while,” the torturer continued, his back to Delton. One of this hands brushed lovingly over the tools, pausing every now and then like a noble struggling to choose their desired sweet from a platter. “I was going to keep it simple, you know. That’s what this was for.” He raised his gloved hand, those sharp metal studs making Delton wilt silently as they flashed in the torchlight. Then, the torturer slipped it off in a gesture that could only be described as  _bored_. It fell to the ground with a metallic clink. “But it is far too brutish, isn’t it? No… you seem like the sort of man who appreciates a little finesse.”

Delton didn’t answer. The torturer continued regardless. It was something he had best get used to.

“No, a beating does not suit you. Not at all. But  _this_ …” He drew out a long, thin blade from its cloth wrap. More a needle than a knife, he held it carefully between his fingertips and turned towards Delton, face half-lit by the torch. Wavering shadows fled into the lines of his gaunt cheeks, seeking a place to hide. “Ah, this little one has always been a favourite of mine. So small. So  _sleek_. It seems a rather innocent thing, yes? Yet it can do so, so very much in talented hands.”

He moved towards Delton, footsteps echoing about the barren room. Delton had returned to standing on his toes and, on instinct, tried to back away. Of course, he did not get far –  _could not_  get far – the chain pulling tight after barely a few inches, tugging him off-balance. He found himself hanging uselessly again as the torturer slowly breached the distance between them. A meter. A foot. An inch. Delton grimaced and turned his head away, trying not to think about that gleaming piece of steel. Those dark, keen eyes.

“Yes. Yes, that is good,” the torturer murmured. Fingers brushed the curve of Delton’s ear, moving his hair aside. The second Delton’s exhausted, terrified mind realised what was happening he jerked away with a growl, chain rattling, legs aching, blood trickling down from his ruined wrists.

“Get away from me,” he hissed, but the hand returned, gripping him by the lower half of his face hard enough to bruise. Turning him like a hound for inspection. Delton could see it now. The needle. Its tip was pointed towards his head. Towards his  _ear_. Delton tried to say  _don’t_  but the hand muffled the word into something unintelligible. Senseless. Useless.

_He was useless._

“The Knight-Captain mentioned you had an ear for accents. It displeased him, although he hid it remarkably well. He likes to shroud himself in something of a mystery, you see.” The torturer’s voice was utterly calm, perhaps even a touch amused. He was  _enjoying_  himself.  “So this is nothing personal on my part, Red. In fact, it is one of the lesser pains I can inflict. But there is something you learn quickly in my, ah…  _profession_. Not all pain comes from the wound itself.”

Delton’s eyes widened and he tried again to pull away as that needle moved into his ear. But he was held tight, the torturer far stronger than his lithe form suggested, those fingers digging hard into Delton’s jaw. He did not feel the needle, but he knew it was there, held steady in those well-practiced fingers. Moving deeper. Sensing the inevitable, Delton felt himself begin to panic, desperate to fight, kick,  _scream_ , but too terrified to move. A whine built up at the back of his throat – it was the only thing he could do – as that needle slid, so, so slowly…

“The drum, they call it,” the torturer murmured, breath hot against Delton’s cheek. “Swim too deep too quickly, and it can burst. A clean pain. Sharp. Sudden.” His tongue flicked out, swiping across his lips. “I wonder what might happen if a needle pierced it slowly. Slid deeper still…”

 _No. No, don’t!_   Delton couldn’t move; he didn’t dare. Panic seized him but he was helpless, eyes wide, already pleading silently despite knowing this was far from the worst that would be done to him. The truth about Delton was that he was not a brave man. He never had been. He ran and hid and stole. When he was caught, he plead until he could run and hide again. But this… this was something else. A game for his tormentor, as mental as it was physical. The torture lay not only in the pain, but in the slowness of it. The waiting. The knowledge that the needle was  _inside his head_  and he  _knew_  it was there and he wouldn’t feel it until it was too late, scraping, piercing through…

It was too much. Delton’s breathing stuttered and stopped as he squeezed his eyes shut, body shaking, not enough air,  _not enough air—_

The door slammed open.

Bull crashed into the room, not pausing to take in the sight, not pausing to think. His axe, its head as large as a grown man’s chest, slammed into the torturer, the force of the impact throwing him away from Delton. Metal clattered to the ground, ringing like a chime against the bloodied stone, the sound accompanying Delton’s cry of pain as that hand released him and left him swinging. The torturer slammed into the table, his tools scattering across the floor, fleeing before his groping hand. The other, once clad in that gauntlet, was pressed tight to his stomach, its contents spilling past his arm as he rasped and groaned. Bull did not wait. Unlike the torturer, he was not one for speeches. Blood bubbled to the wounded man’s lips but he grinned wide as Bull raised his axe. They both knew it was a merciful death.

Bull delivered it anyway.

For once, Delton closed his eyes, turning away before he heard the axe fall. It was too much. All of it was just too, too much. The shackles. The smell of blood. The lack of sleep. The tightness in his chest. The burning. The torment. The needle. The  _needle_.

Rough hands wrapped suddenly around Delton’s waist and he gasped, eyes flying open, not really  _seeing_  as he bucked and kicked. But those hands wouldn’t leave; wouldn’t  _leave_. They stayed and held and stilled until finally a familiar voice broke through the roar of panic in Delton’s head.

“…  _Kadan_. Listen to me. You  _know_ me. I’m not going to hurt you.”

Slowly, his struggling gave way to uncontrollable shaking and Delton found his voice. Tentative. Weak. “Bull?” He blinked, the world a haze of firelight and shadow. “I… d-didn’t. Didn’t tell ‘em anything. I _-I didn’t…”_

A smile, soft yet tense. A comfort for Delton, a deadly promise for anyone else. “Hey. I know, Red. You did good.” A pause followed. It was the most uncertain Delton had ever heard Bull. “You hurt?”

The question almost made Delton laugh, but he just didn’t have it in him. “N-Nah. Just…  _peachy.._.”

In any other situation, that might have earned him a snort of amusement from the Qunari. But for the time being Bull was already busy inspecting Delton’s restraints. “Needs a key. Hold on.” Slowly, Bull started to release Delton’s waist, and it was at that moment Delton realised why Bull had been so intent on grabbing him in the first place. The steady drag of his own bodyweight returned, too much  _too much_  to endure after it had been so mercifully taken away. A hoarse scream tore from Delton’s throat and Bull seized him again, bearing his weight, holding him up again. “Easy,  _easy…_ I’ve got you.” Bull’s voice was so calm. So reassuring.  _He’s got me_. Now unable to do what needed to be done, Bull angled his head towards the door. “Hey Krem! Get in here.”

Delton trembled in Bull’s arms, able to breathe but unable to shake the deep, irrational terror that he would be left again. That Bull would let him go; abandon him and not come back. He’d already caused so them all so much trouble. More than he was worth. Krem arrived, and his eyes widened in alarm at the sight. The lieutenant opened his mouth, but Bull cut him off with a stern order to find the key. For once, Krem did not offer a quip in reply, moving immediately to the body of the torturer do as instructed.

“Hey… you wanna talk to me, Red?” Bull asked softly, deep voice soothing as it filled the room. “You’re alright. We’ve got you.”

Delton closed his eyes, body pressed to Bull’s as the Qunari held him up, taking the pressure off his legs and wrists. “S-Sorry,” he breathed, the words catching in his raw throat. “’m sorry, Bull. I didn’t…”

Bull said nothing. Just held Delton a little tighter, drawing him as close as he could. That alone said more than words ever could.

Luckily, it did not take Krem long to find the key. He hurried over, dragging a stool across the slick stones, standing on it to unlock Delton’s wrists. The manacles snapped open and the red-head collapsed into Bull’s ready arms. For once, Delton didn’t complain as Bull cradled him. In truth, his body was too weak to do anything but lean limply against the Qunari’s chest. Delton sagged. Closed his eyes. He didn’t want to look down at his wrists; he didn’t dare. But Bull did, and the sound of his low, furious growl told Delton all he really needed to know about their state.

“Those  _bastards_. I’ll kill them all for this.”

Krem stepped up to Bull’s side, his hand resting gently on the Qunari’s massive arm. “You already did, Boss.” There wasn’t a trace of the lieutenant’s usual humour in his voice. Frankly, if Bull had dealt with the other Red Templars the way he had dealt with the torturer, it was likely nothing more than a statement of fact.

Bull’s arms tightened protectively around Delton, then loosened just as fast, likely worried about aggravating any other injuries. Ones he had yet to see. “Huh. Good.” Bull moved out of the room and into the narrow corridor, careful to manoeuvre Delton out the door. “Got something more important to do now, anyway.”

Despite it all, something about that voice, rumbling from deep in Bull’s chest, left Delton feeling warm. Safe. Comfortable, when comfortable was about the furthest thing he could possibly hope to be. Delton shuddered – a reflexive spasm – then let himself go limp, breathing in the scent of familiar leather, his mind drifting away from that room. Away from the chains and the smell of blood.

This time, Bull  _did_  let him go, but only to the realm of sleep. Only because he so desperately needed it.

And for the first time in what felt like an age, Delton went willingly.


End file.
